


Grieve the Special Dirty Things

by Fudgyokra



Category: Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Painful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-15 22:44:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19305346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: Bizarro's compromised Kryptonian biology makes for a vicious heat, and Jason happens to be the only suitable mate around.





	Grieve the Special Dirty Things

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Orgy's "Stitches."

When the day began, it had been one of the boring ones: The kind with laundry on the line and little else to do but laze around in the sun listening to the bees drone.

Normally by the time mid-afternoon rolled around, the chores were done and the campsite prepped for lunch, but Jason had to admit the chore-tackling part of the day had been a lot easier with Roy and Kori. It wasn’t that his current companions weren’t competent, but Artemis had been in Brideshead on reconnaissance since the week before, and Bizarro spent the vast majority of the day being too irritable and twitchy to be of any help. By two P.M., Jason was still clothes-pinning jeans by himself, agonizing over whether he’d be able to polish his armor in time to get the cooking finished.

When heavy footsteps approached from behind, he played to his new audience with a snort. “Biz, a little help? I’m startin’ to feel like the team’s housewife here.”

Turning around to catch a glimpse of his companion wiped the grin from his face in seconds. Bizarro looked in no mood to joke, and though Jason was hardly a stranger to mean mugs, the way he hovered, glaring down at him, set off metaphorical warning bells. Something wasn’t right with this picture, nor with the contemplative way Biz replied, “Wife…good.”

Jason wasn’t sure whether to laugh or snarl, but the way he felt in that moment meant the first option would probably come out hysterical, the second non-threatening. In lieu of better options, he tried for a smile, which only made him look twice as awkward as he felt. “It was a joke, big guy.”

“No joke.”

An errant twitch of Bizarro’s hand, in fashion with the strange jitters he’d been suffering through all day, drew Jason’s gaze to the alien’s side, then promptly to the alarming protrusion between his legs, large enough to tent his costume in a way that might have been comical if everything hadn’t just clicked into place.

Jason could still hear the harsh edges of Bruce’s informative tone ringing in his ears, the lesson faint from years of disregard but there all the same: _Kryptonian heats occur in far rarer cycles than those of earth animals, and symptoms appear more quickly._

“Buddy,” he started, holding his hands aloft in surrender as he backed up, trying and failing to keep his eyes on Biz’s face so that his panic might be somewhat quelled.“I can’t help you with the heat thing. I’m not, er, equipped for that.” Despite his earlier judgement call, a laugh bubbled past his lips, sounding every bit as nervous as he’d figured it would. The betrayal of emotion didn’t seem to sway his teammate, who, by the second, appeared less and less friendly as the otherworldly hormones coursed through his veins, heating him from the inside so thoroughly that Jason could feel the warmth from where he stood almost two feet away.

Biz advanced quickly, the movements jerky, unrefined. Desperate. The force of the massive hand around Jason’s throat knocked him backward against the laundry line, snapping it and sending both of them tumbling to the ground in a flutter of damp clothes. Jason felt more than heard the gasp torn from his own throat as he clawed uselessly at the other’s fingers.

Panic gave way to a swell of nausea when Bizarro grunted out an utterance, a succinct declaration of, “Belong to me.”

“You can’t be serious,” Jason tried, hoping to get through to the kinder parts of him, the parts so integral to his character that seemed so far away in the coldness of his still-glaring eyes. Worse, the violent pawing of another large hand at Jason’s zipper, pulling it apart just enough to reach in and tear. “Biz.” Trying to keep his voice level grew harder with each attempt to kick and fight the weight off. “Come on, you gotta snap out of it, man! This isn’t right, you _gotta_ know that.”

He kept racking his brain for Bruce’s voice, felt it fading further and further out of his grasp. _The mating cycle drastically lowers inhibitions. Fighting with their desires seems illogical compared to the results they’d get if acting upon them._

Jason’s breath hitched in his throat, whether from the memory or from the clumsy yank of his jeans down his thighs, he couldn’t be sure. Something was still very wrong, he could feel it; even in a regular heat, Kryptonians could overcome the pull, remain conscious enough of their surroundings to avoid hurting the ones they loved. Looking up into Bizarro’s face, focused and yet far-away in the same antithetical hand, he came to terms with the terrifying possibility that the imperfections in his genes rendered Biz’s ability to hold himself back useless—that, perhaps, the rare and sudden heat made him into nothing more than an animal seeking to breed, spreading his lineage in the most direct, effective way he could.

Bizarro grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him over with a snatch of his hand, slamming Jason down on his front, hard.

The abrupt way his pupils dilated was so immediate he could feel it, but even though his mouth dropped open, the pleas he wanted to make wouldn’t come to fruition. Instead, he was left to claw at the dirt, trying to pull himself out of range but failing with such certainty that he didn’t even have time to feel hope before the feeling of a blunt finger shoving its way inside him overrode any emotion that might have beat its way to his heart.

It wasn’t Biz’s fault his biology made him this way. That was the thought Jason desperately clung to as the finger, dry and too large for his ill-fitted insides to take, mercilessly probed at him, crooking this way and that as if mapping out the best way to force him open.

A groan forced itself past his lips, and the resulting grunt of satisfaction from behind made his cheeks burn with indignation. The thought of any part of his teammate, his companion, his _friend_  taking pleasure from raping Jason put him in a state of immovable shock, even once the finger began pressing painfully at his walls, retracting only to thrust back in, aiming at a new spot with every move. The jabbing was harsh and unforgiving, but the hand that came around to fist his cock was what dragged another noise out of him. It seemed to be the desired result, because the finger blessedly stilled, and the stroking picked up in its stead.

For several minutes Jason bit back his reactions, a herculean effort for his wounded pride and invaded body. Then, eventually, the toying ceased.

His muscles tensed, primed for the opportunity to run if he saw one. It wouldn’t do him any good. No matter how fast he ran or how hard he fought, a Super was always destined to outdo him. Despite it all, his mind frantically leafed through possibilities, stuttering out at the soft thud of clothes on the ground behind him. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t even think he had the guts for it until he felt the slick press of Bizarro’s cock against him, and the startle wouldn’t allow him not to aim a glance over his shoulder. The smallest of mercies revealed that the organ Bizarro possessed appeared slick with a type of self-lubrication working to ensure the proper slide, but that was the end of mercy, for the size alone promised to split Jason open.

“Biz—” he tried, edging on begging and feeling downright ashamed for it, “stop.”

He received no coherent response. No reasoning, no bargaining, no remorse. There was only the sensation of being spread apart and appraised, the pressure against his entrance steadily increasing until, all at once, the tip of the impossible girth popped past his tender ring of muscles.

He only heard the tapering end of his own scream; the rest was lost to the overwhelming sting of pain, so intense in its arrival that he could only sag forward, weight held on his forearms as he clawed marks into the ground with dirty, ragged nails. There was no give, because the instant Bizarro forced himself in, he growled, predatory and final, and layered himself over Jason’s back. The heat of it was nearly unbearable, threatening to suffocate him if the weight of the alien didn’t do it first.

Discomfort, pain, and humiliation were all he felt, all he could fathom as several wet inches slid in at once, stuffing him too full for comfort and bringing the nausea back in a burst. He groaned again, the reaction eliciting another growl in addition to a shallow thrust of Biz’s hips as he drove himself into Jason’s unwilling hole until it stretched obscenely around the intrusion.

Briefly, everything stopped. Jason’s breaths came shallow and ragged, very near to panting. His eyes fluttered open the slightest bit, although he hadn’t remembered closing them. His lashes felt wet.

Shakily, he pushed himself to his elbows and looked over his shoulder, feeling the tiniest flicker of hope that perhaps something had magically wiped the heat away, or had otherwise given his friend a change of thought. Instead, what he saw was a pair of calculating, cold eyes—eyes that didn’t seem to belong to any man he knew, but a creature singularly and wholly given over to the pull of sexual desire. Jason was being carefully studied, and from where he was bent he could see that their progress had only granted Biz access as deep as half of his cock could fit, and there were several more inches remaining. The issue seemed to be finding the ability to force in more.

At another of his accidental wounded noises, Bizarro gave a huff of brainless arousal to remind Jason of his place in this. He was merely a tool for breeding. A tool to be _bred._

“No,” he managed to say, even with a vulnerable waver to his voice he hadn’t heard in years, “you can’t do this. It won’t work. You’ve gotta listento me, damn it!” The words alone took too much out of him, and by the end he was panting again, forehead back in the dirt.

Bizarro pulled out, gifting him with another sting of pain that had his thighs quaking before his hips could even hit the ground where he was dropped.

The instinct to run failed to eliminate itself as Jason took a breath, dug one knee into the earth, and made to spring forward. He was stopped by Bizarro’s hands lifting him up, not only to his knees but onward, until he was mid-air with nothing to grasp onto but the fingers wrapped firmly around his waist. His back collided with a broad, hard chest, and in the dizzying seconds that followed the impact, those hands hooked beneath his thighs and spread his legs painfully, until his hips popped in protest.

“Wait!” Then, breathed out in a fresh wave of panic: “No, no, no!”

He felt himself being lifted again, positioned above the threatening point of Bizarro’s cock. Nothing could be done while he stared at the beast he was being forcibly acquainted with: A massive pulsing thing, purple to its base and larger around than Jason’s wrist. Both of them, even. The length was equally brutal, and it begun to shunt its way back inside him as Biz lowered him onto it.

His muscles, tensed from the angle and from being previously abused, screamed at the handling even when his lungs couldn’t find the air to do the same. He couldn’t look away, nor succumb to the blackness around the edges of his vision, which offered the unreachable peace of passing out. He’d had too much practice maintaining consciousness throughout torment, meaning no amount of wanting it was going to allow him reprieve. It did lessen the blow, if only meagerly, as he crested the organ's middle once more and was then impaled farther.

Before he even realized he was speaking, he’d eked out, “God,please—no more—” It did little to discourage movement. He felt the hardness press its way to the limits of his body, filling him to the brim so thoroughly he couldn’t even shudder away from the feeling without risking more pain. All at once, the faint nausea became a burning wave, and with one final thrust, Bizarro buried himself to the hilt.

Seeing the bump in his own stomach forced Jason to lose his breakfast in a series of retches, loud and ongoing until there was nothing left but acid of which he could rid himself. He prayed for even the slightest pause, but the rabid heat overtaking the Kryptonian’s brain gave him no such luck. Before he’d even stopped dry-heaving, Biz's cock pulled out to the head, then thrust violently back in, the entire length sheathed in one horrendous, aching jab.

Jason's screaming only registered to him this time after a handful of thrusts, and by then the haziness in his vision had regrettably faded, leaving him fully aware of the pulsing in his stomach as he was violated to the ends of what his body could take, the intrusion pumping into him again and again until the lubrication made their coupling jarringly noisy. Lubrication eased the pain marginally, but the lewd, wet squelches were somehow worse. The fog of heat he was surrounded by offered its help as well, and, in a moment of delirious panic, he found himself hoping the arousal was somehow contagious—that he could acquire the mind-numbing desire through some means of alien magic, if only to separate himself from the discomfort.

With the aid of those massive hands on his hips, Jason found himself being pulled up and down along Biz’s cock, used like a toy until the utter shame of it made him drop his last guard. All at once, his muscles gave out, and he let his head flop uselessly onto the alien’s shoulder as he moaned, eyes squeezed tightly, teeth gritted against the hurt.

The way he loosened up must have been enjoyed if the newly-erratic thrusts were any indication. Some were shallow, some were deep, but each of them were equally instrumental in carving him open in what felt like a bid to fuck him senseless.

In a sudden rush of horrid heat, he felt Bizarro coming, imbuing Jason with an intense, cramping sort of ache as his stomach swelled around the offering until it couldn’t take any more. Jason felt a bone-deep fear that if it went on, he’d be sick again, but, blessedly, Biz finished and then dropped Jason limply to the ground, where he immediately spasmed around the flood of cum rushing from him. His face flushed darkly at the idea of being found that way. Used. Ruined. Wrecked and left in this embarrassing mess.

The hope returned, roosting somewhere deep enough in his chest that he even closed his eyes and began breathing normally again before it was dashed again with a single word: “More!”

It never worked, never even held a candle to the inferno raging in his teammate’s blood, but Jason maintained his hope that his fragile, croaked, “No” would save him from falling victim to the onslaught all over again. Hell, by then he was praying for Artemis to return so perhaps she could put a stop to this nightmare.

She didn’t return. Jason only saw Bizarro, their brother in arms, and the way his nostrils flared like the smell of Jason leaking aroused him that much more.

Jason pressed his fingers into the dirt when he felt his hips being lifted, but the purchase of solid ground was soon lost to the aggressive way he was flipped onto his back, forced to acknowledge the waning but still-present bump denoting the copious amounts of release sloshing in his stomach. The thought fled his mind when his legs were pressed back, his ankles dangling mid-air and everything exposed to the awaiting monstrous length prepared to make further use of his battered form.

This time when the head pushed against him, his hole accepted it without a fight, too stretched from the first round to do any good denying it. He felt, for a fleeting moment, a fear that he would be irreparably damaged—that his insides would never be the same, unable to accept anything less than what was shoving a path in him for a second time.

His calves and feet bobbed uselessly at every violent thrust, and without any fight or tension left, adding in the aid of the obscene amounts of lubricant and cum leaking from them both, his body took everything easily. Although he was still racked with intense aches and the phantom stings of being split apart, all the pain dulled at once, and, thankful for the fact, Jason closed his eyes, letting himself be rocked back and forth, used for the Kryptonian’s pleasure until he was satisfied.

Just like the first time, the flood of hot cum seared through him, stuffing him close to bursting. Bizarro pulled out halfway through, messing Jason's thighs and stomach but at least sparing him the pain of being over-full and throwing up again. He barely felt his legs fall when he was dumped this time, instead intimately attuned to the sensation of viscous fluid leaking out and pooling beneath him, the final nail of shame in the coffin.

Above, the sun had begun lowering, denoting an hour nearing dinnertime, if not already there. The loss of hours didn’t settle well with Jason, but it was hard to think straight past the abuse he’d just taken, or past the looming menace of Biz’s shadow nearby.

He groaned as he shifted. The motion did nothing for mobility, its only consequence dispelling more fluid from between his legs. Bizarro still hadn’t left.

Jason's breathing picked up again at the soft brush of a hand over his cock, and at a curious squeeze, his hips jerked without permission. His lips parted, but no words came out, as they were impeded by a watery moan when two fingers slipped into his ruined hole, hooking and spreading him out so the steady stream of cum flowing from him felt somehow warmer, more intimate.

Faintly, in the back of his mind, he heard Bruce’s voice again: _Heats generally last three to five days, and the afflicted may mate several times per day. It’s reasonable to have multiple partners, since it can be difficult to handle alone…_

Instead of the sound he meant to make, all his exhaustion could manage was a quiet keen. Biz seemed to steal the intended growl right from his lungs, and afterward he said, with conviction that made Jason’s heart stutter, “ _More._ ”


End file.
